


Dream a little dream with me

by Sevynlira



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, M/M, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22501381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevynlira/pseuds/Sevynlira
Summary: Crowley says sleeping is brilliant. Should Aziraphale try it out?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 58





	1. Temptation accomplished

**Author's Note:**

> Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world,  
> A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existance- Lord Byron, The Dream

**1793, France, after some rather scrummy crepes and an inspiring visit with his ~~friend~~ adversary Crowley**

Crowley had given him the idea. This all was Crowley's fault of course. Foul fiend. Centuries of little nudges and hints at what a pleasure it could be. The soft pleasant darkness and languid safe unwinding. He talked about the ritual of it. The humanity of it. How those beautiful bright souls glitter in the night with the fires banked and the sentinels of stars to watch over them. It sounded so blissful. So right. He had finally caved. Anyone would have! Those pretty golden eyes glinted with alcohol and amusement as if he were holding some little secret about humanity close. So of course, it piqued the angel’s interest.

So here he was. Quietly preparing his sanctuary. Soft warm clothes, a glass of water on the nightstand. Crowley was right about that part. The ritual. The attentive energy to set out the room for himself. That part was quite lovely. Aziraphale settled between the cool sheets with a soft sigh. Sleep. Just this once. The quiet dark settled around him as he unpicked the awareness slowly from his mind. There. Drifting and floating down. It was like nothing else really. So like being with Crowley. To rest here in the dark. Opening himself to the vulnerable state of unconscious slackness. Trusting the dark to hold him safe. The cradle of his bed rocking him down into other.  
There.  
Where?  
Long cool fingers tracing the stress from his brows. Angular bony limbs finding the way to anchor him safe. Oh Crowley. Tucked softly breathing against him. Gently rocking his hips against the wider bulk of his own. Aziraphale tips his face down to bury his nose into the soft pleasure of his hair. Oh! But the demon is naked. Miles of bare skin pressed right up against him. Warm gentle lips touching the edge of his ear. Just exactly like that. How he had imagined it. Had he? Imagined it?  
Just as he begins to wonder, soft red edges of light spread against his awareness and here he is awake. That was it then? Dreams? What a wild wonder it had been! What secret precious delight! There in that place, his tiny hoarded treasure of gentle inquiry had bloomed into a full wide warmth. Even now, with his mind still ticking to full awareness, he can feel the shape of the demon beside him. And no Heavenly Hosts to keep track of his hands and eyes. Oh, but he longs to return to the dream right away. Really, he shouldn’t. It is just like all the other delights of the flesh. Moderation is needed. So. He would just have to be strict with himself.

He isn’t really prepared for the effect of seeing Crowley again. That knowing quirk of his mouth seems to say something about his own secret. He almost confesses, almost blurts out what he has been doing. He can’t! Blasted serpent will start asking questions and it’s one thing to have a dream about someone and Aziraphale feels like it is quite another to be admitting it. Dreams are, after all, so incredibly private! One doesn’t just talk about such things. He can barely school his face and calm the rising blush. Oh Crowley would never let the angel live it down. How embarrassing.

Had Crowley always been this lovely? This splendid? His eyes cannot stop tracking the demon. He keeps hoarding more and more quiet little insights to savour later. The edge of his mouth just there and the sunset trapped in his hair. Just a glance. Over the months and years he takes all those quick soft stolen moments. For later. Later he can hope they will pour into his dreams and they do. Oh they do. Aziraphale has made a calendar! A very strict, very reassuring, calendar. To schedule his sleep. Only twice a month! It is all under control. There, right there in his dreams he can stare and stare. He can tip his face into the warm curve of that throat and rest. Just there where he has pinned the shape of his shoulder and the edge of his cheek. Right there where those long fingers wrap around a cane. A hat. His elbow. Pale and pressed into his mind's eye.

One day he needs an excuse to touch his hair and save the texture. Oh, fates! Please send some reason! Blast it. Just a tiny miracle to drift a leaf. Caught between the strands. Aziraphale's fingertips brush and push the offending scrap. He holds his hand in Crowley's hair only a beat too long. He has it though. The feel of it. Later in the depths of his dreams he holds fistfulls of the stuff. The remembered silk of it crushed between his fingers. Oh he could stay here forever. Always the transient pleasure melts with the dawn and Aziraphale is left with the ghostly echo of what might be. In another world. Another reality. It is a rough and poor substitute but he is quite content in it. The unbearable stretch of time between their meetings is softened to an easier thing. Easier but infinitely more thrilling. Does his face show every secret moment he has plucked from the dark? Does his nervous hands show the hidden paths they have played? The excitement pushes every moment spent with the demon to unbearable heights


	2. The nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the glance  
> Of melancholy is a fearful gift;  
> What is it but the telescope of truth,  
> Which strips the distance of its fantasies,  
> And brings life near in utter nakedness,  
> Making the cold reality too real- Lord Byron, The Dream

_**1862, after a thoroughly regrettable fight in St. James Park** _

_"Please! Angel! Don't. Don't let them!" Crowley's voice is stripped rough and trips raw between his blood flecked lips. The aspergillum still raises in a holy hand and with one disdainful flick, flick, drip. Red-wet holes drill through flesh and bone. Like bullets the droplets keep going as if the demon were paper. And the smell. The putrid fetid stench of sulphur as his flesh gapes and blisters and splits. They could have ended this in one great plunge but why would they? Oh the wretched begging! No being can be proud in such a moment. Crowley hadn't been. He wasn't ever once too proud to beg. Never had been. What did they think they took from him by making him grovel? Nothing. It was for Aziraphale. His punishment to see it. To know it. For sure. Crowley broken and ruined forever. It was his punishment. He deserved it. It was all his fault! Please. Stop. Make it stop!_

Aziraphale lurches straight up from the bed. His face streaked with tears. Oh! A nightmare. Oh his heart! What terrible trap is this? To be so helpless in sleep and forced to live the worst imaginings until you can finally escape! Can he hurt so much and still be living? All his fault. It would be. If the demon were caught. If anyone knew. If he didn't stop. Fraternizing. These dreams. He had to stop. If the nightmare hadn't chilled him to the bone the stark reality of Crowley's precautions did. If the demon thought he might need a weapon of that magnitude. It wasn't safe. He couldn't keep acting like the dreams were not risky. He took risks because of them. He kept making giddy mistakes. Besides, that stalking horror still stops his breath in choking terror. It's too much. He cannot ever endure such a thing again. The Crowley of his dreams had always been a silent vision. It was always too much to start putting words into his mouth. He didn't dare such an insult. Crowley always had and always would be given space to speak for himself. Even if it is just in silly dreams. He didn't flatter himself by setting soft moans to flutter against his fingers or gentle hungry words of encouragement. It was a line too far. Now he regrets it. He should have at least dreamed his normal teasing banter. Now in his dreamscape Crowley's voice is tortured screams and broken begging. Aziraphale can still hear the hoarsely whispering pleas. It's what he deserves for endangering his friend. The dream was a warning. He was getting too close. Too fond. It had been easy to forget the risks in the heady excitement of the dreams. It stops today. No more.


	3. Cant stop, wont stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To him the book of Night was opened wide,  
> And voices from the deep abyss revealed  
> A marvel and a secret.-Lord Byron, The Dream

_**1941, right after the bombing of a certain church** _

It had been instinct and impulse that made him turn so quickly back to the habit of remembering a single touch. Had Crowley meant to do that? The demon had meant to save the books. For him. Then handing them off, for a moment, their fingertips brushed. One slender finger touching from the middle joint to tip. Perfection. The books. Those were a clear sign absolutely. He cares! Some fervent voice inside of the angel whispers. But had he meant for that tender touch to be so sweet? So treasured? Was it only an accident? His mind is already playing it over and over. He could. Oh he shouldn't! But really, does it matter? His mind is on the matter even while wide awake. Surely him being unconscious makes the implications better! Not worse! He is helpless to his dreams as the nightmare proved. So if this moment trapped in his memory were to come forward in a dream, well, it isn't his fault. There. It's settled. Besides, he had to turn down that dear company. Might as well comfort himself with the small ghost of his affection. It is enough. It has to be. He once again turns to his realm of dreams.

_**1967, after handing over his favorite tartan vacuum flask** _

The nightmare returns. He knew it would. In the end, he thinks he has reduced the chances of Crowley being caught. He hopes. He still wakes screaming and shivering. Wakes with his wings arched high and battle bright. Tucked around the core of himself as if he is capable of protecting either of them. It takes months to banish but Crowley's scowling swagger always drags him back to his secret dreamscape.

_**2019, after their duties as godfather are finished** _

He hadn't dared sleep. Not a wink. Not the entire time he was so close to the antichrist. No telling what such a being could do with a dream. It was not the time to be so vulnerable. Besides, Crowley was so close! If he timed it right he could see him every day! It was almost too much. Tormenting himself through the night hours as well as the day would be rather ridiculous. So when that disastrous birthday party drops flat he feels two things. First, panic! It IS the end of the world after all. But secondly, some softer whisper that says he can escape all of this soon. Either in the blasted end of things or in his quiet bookshop amid the dusty scent of his daytime refuge. His kingdom of dreams awaits.

It is impossible to keep from greedily nudging the demon to give in and do some small service. He had only imagined that Crowley might brush his fingertips over the stain and push it away. Of course, he has to blow gently while leaning close. Pursed lips, this soft regard. Oh! Aziraphale can feel himself glowing somewhere deep. He is almost daydreaming already and begins to pour out his compliments like water, like dreams. He has forgotten to watch his mouth. So he watches Crowley’s. Feels the urgent vibrating power in his limbs as the demon hauls him up against the wall. This one. This memory he will keep. Tucked there among the rest. So close! He can feel the brush of Crowley’s nose against his own. He urges the chattering nun, “Dream of whatever things you like best”. He shouldn’t know so much of dreams. And here he is wildly giving advice. To a satanic nun no less.


	4. Dream come true

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mind can make  
> Substance, and people planets of its own  
> With beings brighter than have been, and give  
> A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh-Lord Byron, The Dream

_**After the apocalypse that wasn't** _

He is given no time to rest because there is the bike accident and the book and being without a corporation and surviving the apocalypse no less. It was terribly busy. So busy that he feels turned around and inside out by the time it is decided that he can’t possibly return to his burned shop.

They both tumble into Crowley’s flat and collapse onto his enormous sofa with dazed expressions. They had survived it. Well, this part of it. The absolute chaos of heaven and hell will surely come down upon them both. But for now, they are slumped down into the furniture like forgotten toys. Crowley reaches for his sunglasses and wings them off to some corner where they will likely sit on them later. Distractedly, Aziraphale wonders how many pairs of them they might find if they upended the room in a search.

The demon rubs his eyes with his fingertips and groans. “Angel, I am knackered.” he complains.

“You should sleep” Aziraphale agrees.

“I just.” Crowley begins before taking a long breath. “I thought you were gone. I thought it was over and done. I just don’t want.” He flounders with his next thought. “I don’t want to be alone right now.” He says to the disinterested rug. His restless fingers pick the frayed edge of his sleeve. All at once he is more vulnerable than Aziraphale has ever seen. Well, more than he has seen in person. His discorporated spirit had seen Crowley so hurt and angry and lost. This week has been too much for anyone to be expected to keep it all together.

"Can I sleep just here, Angel?" Crowley asks, and then curls up onto his side before he can even answer. Somehow, the angel had separated his idea about dreaming from the fact that Crowley himself sleeps. Ridiculous since the demon is the one who put him up to the notion in the first place! He had never considered how his long angular frame would look curled up and quiet. He is always in motion. Always bouncing a knee or fiddling his fingers or something. Never so still and vulnerable. The familiar itch in the angel's wings to arch and protect rises up. Aziraphale squirms in discomfort. No one is around to see it even. His wings are tucked safely away. He has never felt it so strong when he is awake. Those nightmares always drag his need to be a shield to the surface, a warrior, it's a secret need. He has never indulged or shared it with Crowley in the room. Crowley is orders of magnitude more capable anyway. As they saw today. He would probably laugh, anyway.

He watches Crowley slowly wake. His face is flushed with sleep and his languid eyes blink slowly. Beautiful. Without a word, he rises up to his knees on the sofa. Leans close. Presses his fingers into the angel's hair. Aziraphale reaches for his hip, urges him closer. With a little nod, Crowley straddles his waist. All that sleepy warmth curls into his arms. The demon tucks his face into his neck and just rests there. Aziraphale's own heartbeat stutters and then slams harder as his hands trace the slender wedge of Crowley's back. The weight presses them both deeper into the sofa until the angel feels engulfed by the scent and feel of him. So good. Just as he had imagined it.

There is the sudden jarring sound of a throat being cleared. "While that is very flattering Angel, I think you have a little bit too much muscle on my arms." Aziraphale startles so badly that he sits up straight on the couch with a cry of surprise!

Crowley is all the way across the sofa and smirking with that maddening glint in his eyes. "Sleeping hmm? And dreaming?" Aziraphale is so flustered that he almost forgets he can control the hot blush that is flooding his face.

"Crowley! I..well." the angel can't think of a single way to finish his declarative and so he simply falls into an uncomfortable moment of silence before daring to glance at his companion again.

"Why do you think I sleep Aziraphale?" Crowley asks, finally breaking the awkward silence.

"You know, I never really asked did I?" The angel answers.

"I sleep because sometimes I am just so tired. I don't mean my corporation, angel. I am tired of all this. The fighting. The wars and the sides. I just want to rest. I want to be somewhere far away."

Everything has changed in the last few days and weeks. Everything, because Crowley would never have been so open. And Aziraphale wouldn't have been able to answer at all. He would have found some excuse or escape.

Things have changed. So Aziraphale only quietly answers, "Yes. I only wanted to spend more time with you. I couldn't. It was too dangerous. I hated risking your life like that. So I tried it. Sleeping." He stops to pretend it is all rather casual and amusing. A quick flutter of a smile and tip of the head. "Since you mentioned it so fondly. I quite like it. I suppose it's become a habit! I didn't even realise I was sleeping at all just then." Once again he feels a flood of embarrassment at the content of his dream.

Crowley is reminded too apparently. His amusement returns. "You didn't notice you were dreaming when a rather more fit version of me was straddling your lap?"

"Crowley!" The angel protests as if scandalized. "You are more attractive than you give yourself credit for. I believe I am very very close in my estimation of your size."

"Oh, I said nothing about attractive. I was specifically talking about my arms, but go on, angel." The demon is practically preening from the compliment and completely enthralled by the astounding revelation of these last few minutes.

"Well, this disagreement can't be settled by our simple argument Crowley." Aziraphale primly states, nodding his head as if he is debating the merits of pre-romantic British literature. "If you want to prove me wrong you will just have to come over here and show me."

It is probably a good thing that Crowley is sitting down because he might have fallen down in sheer disbelief. He isn't backing down though, not from a provoking challenge like this! He intentionally crowds the angel with all confidence and boldness.

Aziraphale was slightly hoping that it would call his bluff and gain the upper hand. Contradictory to that is the feeling that maybe he won't back down. Maybe he won't and they will be so close. And then. Well, now. Now he has a lap full of Crowley. The demon arches a brow. "See, angel?" He taunts.

Aziraphale feels his entire body go entirely still to capture every single second just as he has done for the last two hundred years. Saving every nuance. Every ounce of this weight pressing down onto his thighs. The width of his shoulders. Almost by habit he reaches to touch the side of Crowley's face. Too late, he remembers that it isn't a dream and he hasn't asked if he can. So he pauses, stuck there with his hand outstretched. "I see you Crowley." He half whispers. "But not enough. That is why I have the dreams. I save every impression. Every texture for the dreams. I see you. All of you. I know you Crowley. I tried dreaming the first time around 1790 or so. And I guess you were on my mind because you suggested it. So I dreamed about you. I wanted to go back immediately. It was so good to spend more time with you. It's just about all I can think about lately."

Crowley catches his hand where it hovers and presses it against the edge of his jaw. His bright eyes are no longer laughing or competing, they are wide with surprised longing.

"Why, if someone were to ask me to be you in a play, I could do it! I'm quite sure." The angel insists.

"I still think you got the arms wrong." The demon argues only because he must always be a contentious pain in the arse.

"Well if I did, it's your fault for always wearing black. I can hardly be expected to have it right when all I see is layers of black on black."

Crowley scoffs loudly "Ha! You are complaining to ME about layers! Angel, you don't step a single toe out of your shop without three layers of clothes. Don't talk to me about layers! Bloody Victorians and all these damn clothes and you love it! I don't think I have seen your collar unbuttoned since 1830!"

"Is that a complaint, Crowley?" Aziraphale asks slyly.

The demon senses the cul de sac he has managed to drive himself into just a moment too late. An inarticulate noise is his first answer. His second is a hesitant "uhm...just saying."

"Because if you wanted me to open my collar, you could ask." Aziraphale brushes his thumb over the angled plane of his cheek.

Crowley simply stares in dazed wonder for a long moment before something behind his eyes changes. "Wait! Go back. Aziraphale. What did you say? About the play."

Completely thrown by the quick change in Crowley, the angel has to think for a moment. "I could be you in a play?"

"That! Yes! Oh, you clever. That! Could you really? If it were life or death. Could you play me. Perfectly?"

Aziraphale considers the question. "I do think so. I think, other than yourself, of course, no one would catch the difference. Not if I were really trying."

"That paper. The one that you showed me. Choose your faces, Aziraphale! That's it! We have to change places. They won't catch on and will think to use demonic tortures on you and angelic tortures on me! It wont work! If they want to read scriptures at you or make you say a catechism and toss you in a whole swimming pool of holy water you wouldn't be bothered at all!" Crowley has flung himself off the couch regrettably far from the angel, but returns in one big whirlwind to kiss Aziraphale square on the mouth. It isn't a kiss meant for seduction however it sends a rushing thrill out even to Aziraphale's fingertips.

Then something occurs to him. "Oh but you! Crowley! Can you copy me well enough? We don't have very long to practice. I'm sure they are quite furious and planning even now!"

Crowley scoffs at the idea. "Of course Aziraphale! I have been dreaming about you for way longer. I bet I even have your eyelashes perfect."

"Oh you wicked demon! To think, I was feeling wretched about being so forward with your graven image in my dreams!" Aziraphale stands to chase the horrible wretch. "You weren't going to tell me either! Were you?"

Crowley cleverly evades the grasping swipe of the angel and places a convenient table between them. "Absolutely not! You look so beautiful when you are embarrassed!" He yelps when a pillow gets tossed at his head. "Oi! I don't have any useless tiny pillows in my house. I'm a demon! Don't start getting any decorating ideas, angel. I might want your collar unbuttoned but that doesn't mean we are putting up curtains!"

Aziraphale finally tackles him and the ensuing wrestling match does end up unbuttoning quite a few buttons. Satisfied with his pyrrhic victory, Aziraphale finally can drive his hands into Crowley's hair and feel the demon's lips skating so carefully over his scandalously exposed throat. "So much sweeter than any dream." He breathes, not even sure if Crowley can hear him.

They eventually come up for air, Aziraphale propped against a wall and Crowley plastered against his chest. "We should practice our roles" they agree and shakily drag themselves apart. It's only possible because they know the act will buy their future. Their steadfast attention through the years is going to win their freedom. All of those tortured lonely nights on lonely beds has built a juggernaut of passionate faith and love for each other. They were never wasted. Those years. That balance of longing distance. All of it counts. In the end. Because loving someone, near or far, in dreams or just sharing a glass of wine, it counts. All the love. All the bright dreams and promises one day will gather to the bosom of your love. And there grows light and life. There is no such thing as wasted dreams.


End file.
